


Sight Unseen

by Ambyrfire



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime)
Genre: (note: very directly implied), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Disabled Character, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post ep. 24, Post-Canon, Rape Aftermath, blind!Slaine, future fluff and comfort, future rape recovery I swear, paralyzed/paraplegic character, past nasty stuff which will be tagged when it's brought up, very slight divergence though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambyrfire/pseuds/Ambyrfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He remembered the fall to Earth. The sickening heat, the screeching of the few still-functioning instruments in a futile attempt to warn that something was very wrong, the crackle of dying screens as reentry fried the delicate wiring. The last moment, the bone-twisting force of impact and tearing pain and the screaming of ripping metal, before everything went black.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He’d opened his eyes to that same blackness.</i></p><p> </p><p>Slaine Troyard returns to Earth. It does not welcome him.</p><p>Kaizuka Inaho finds that saving the world and saving one person are very different tasks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. • things you said after it was over •

Slaine lay there, unmoving, in the hospital bed.

 

It felt like a hospital bed, anyway.

 

The press of the metal handcuffs against his wrist was cold, harsh. He didn’t know why they’d bothered to cuff him to the bed. It wasn’t as if he could get up and try to run away, even if he wanted to.

 

From what he’d gathered from the staff’s whispering, Kaizuka had dragged his unconscious body from the shattered wreckage of the Tharsis and kept his heart beating until the medics arrived. Quite dramatic, if rumor-mongering could be believed.

 

At least he’d gotten the reason behind why the man would put so much effort into keeping an enemy alive.

 

_“Seylum asked me to save you.”_

 

That the Princess still cared about him enough to want him to live, even after everything he had done, was more than simply a relief. It was the only comfort he had now, and he cradled it close to his heart.

 

He turned his face towards the ceiling– or, rather, in the direction he guessed the ceiling was. There was no way for him to tell if he guessed right.

 

He remembered the fall to Earth. The sickening heat, the screeching of the few still-functioning instruments in a futile attempt to warn that something was very wrong, the crackle of dying screens as reentry fried the delicate wiring. The last moment, the bone-twisting force of impact and tearing pain and the screaming of ripping metal, before everything went black.

 

He’d opened his eyes to that same blackness.

 

He hadn’t screamed or cried when he realized what was wrong. Panic would be worse than useless.

 

The numbness– more than numbness, an eerie emptiness of all sensation– in his legs had taken longer to register. He hadn’t wanted to answer the doctors’ flat, distant questions– was an assessment of the damage even necessary, when the evidence was right there, motionless and insensate?

 

It was a fitting punishment for his sins. Slaine Sazbaaum-Troyard, cold-blooded killer and leader of the attack on Earth, left a prisoner, blinded and crippled.

 

~

 

Seylum had cried when Inaho told her.

 

Not immediately– at first, she had tried to retain the appearance of calm, even as her hands shook and her breath hitched.

 

“So there is– there is no hope of further recovery?”

 

He could have listed off a long litany of technicalities, but she could only misinterpret them as hopeful. So he responded simply.

 

“Correct.”

 

She bit her lip, gaze falling to the ground. She did not appear to notice the way her fingers twisted in the material of her skirts.

 

“So he’s… so Slaine will never walk, or see, again.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

“Yes.”

 

That was when she broke. Her hands flew to her mouth and she sobbed into them, tears welling up and rolling down her face in an abrupt, unstoppable stream.

 

“I’m sorry, Slaine, I’m so sorry! I never meant for it to end this way!”

 

“Your actions had no effect on the trajectory of the impact or severity of the crash”–

 

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, running a hand over her eyes, “but please don’t.” Composure slowly gathering, she turned away.

 

And there was nothing more that could be said.

 

~

 

“Why did you try so hard to keep me alive?” Twelve minutes of artificial respiration before help arrived, if the whispers of the staff could be believed. Slaine wasn’t sure that he did– exaggeration was easy, and exciting, for those with nothing better to put their minds to.

 

“I already told you, Seylum”–

 

“That’s not an answer. Most people would have given up long before then. The princess is kind enough that she would have accepted that you did what you could. You didn’t need to fight so hard for me. By all rights I should be dead. So– Why?”

 

Kaizuka was silent for a long moment. Then he said, slowly, “I do not assign differing values to human lives. If there is something I can do to preserve the life of another human being, I will do it.”

 

“Well, isn’t that _noble_ of you.”

 

“It is not nobility. It is the duty of all people to respect the lives and dignity of their fellows.”

 

“That’s an odd attitude for a soldier to take.”

 

“Not particularly. It is important to respect one’s adversary.”

 

“’Respect?’ Really? Tell me, does killing hundreds with cold-blooded efficiency count as respect?”

 

“Killing to preserve the lives of others is perfectly conscionable.”

 

Slaine wondered what expression was showing on his face. Maybe disgust, or disdain. Incredulity would work too. “Nice to know you have a neat little justification for murder ready to pull up when you need it. But where do I fall in all of this?”

 

“Your death was not necessary at that point, and Seylum asked that I save you. There was no reason not to, so I did.”

 

“Oh, so I’m only alive because you saw no reason to kill me? Isn’t that just _wonderful_.”

 

Kaizuka was silent for a long moment. It gave Slaine a sense of vicious satisfaction that he’d managed to shut the bastard up, even for a short time.

 

Alas, it wasn’t permanent.

 

“You are alive because there was enough spirit in you to survive. Seylum wished for you to live, and so I did what was required to produce that result. But my efforts would have been pointless if not for the way you clung to life even while unconscious. Considering the amount of trauma your body underwent, the resilience of your heart was impressive.”

 

Amazing, just amazing, the amount of bullshit that Kaizuka could spout in that same flat, featureless voice.

 

“I clung to life? Life is the last thing that I want. After all I have done, death is what I deserve.” _No, wrong. Death is too good for me._ “And should you be praising my resilience? Perhaps if I was a little less _resilient_ , there would be thousands of people still living happy and free right now, instead of dead and buried.”

 

“Your will to survive has little to do with your war crimes. And stating that something exists is not praising it.”

 

“ _Tch_. Semantics.” _Shit, stubborn too, on top of pretentious, contrary, and aggravating._ “So, tell me– does this will to live have a point? Or is my body just pushing on, void of purpose?”

 

“There is no point to it I can see.”

 

“So you openly admit that keeping me alive is pointless?”

 

“At the scale of the universe, everything is pointless. I don’t attempt to find meaning where there is none. It is better not to worry over questions of purpose. Living is enough reason in itself to keep going.”

 

Slaine’s eyebrows rose sharply. “And I’m supposed to find this encouraging?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then… why even tell me?”

 

“Because you asked.”

 

_Blunt as all hell, too_. Slaine didn’t even bother responding. He closed his eyes– his sightless eyes, the gesture reminding him anew of just how futile it was– and turned away from the general direction of Kaizuka’s voice.

 

“Do you wish for me to leave?”

 

Slaine dug his fingernails into the sheets. “What was it that gave it away?”

 

“Many things.”

 

“Really? I’m _shocked_ ,” Slaine snapped. “So, why aren’t you gone yet? Do you have any further reason to sit here needling me?”

 

“No”–

 

“Then leave.”

 

–“Other than assessing your health to determine how soon you will be ready for facility transfer.”

 

“Oh,” Slaine spat, “so you’re just here to see if I’ve recovered enough to rot in prison? How kind of you.”

 

“That isn’t it.”

 

Slaine rolled back over, incredulous. “And you just said it was? Your distortion of your own words is impressive even to me, Kaizuka Inaho.”

 

“I am here to determine for myself your condition.”

 

“Why, pray tell?” _Why should you care_.

 

“To ensure you are improving.”

 

“Ah yes. You need something to report back to Her Majesty.”

 

“Not only that. Preserving your life doesn’t stop at resuscitation and emergency first aid. I must track your state afterwards as well, or I might as well not have wasted the effort of keeping you alive.”

 

“Keeping me alive is ‘wasted effort’ after all, then.”

 

“Hardly. If I thought it was a waste, I would not have done it.”

 

“And what,” Slaine spat acidly, “made you ascribe worth to saving me?”

 

“I believe you are capable of surviving this.”

 

Slaine’s eyes snapped open– to darkness. A spark of fury flared and died in him that he could not search Kaizuka’s expression for clues about what that was supposed to mean.

 

Maybe… maybe it meant exactly what was said. After all, Kaizuka was acting as Princess Asseylum’s loyal servant. Carrying out her wishes. Unlike himself.

 

Slaine smiled bitterly.

 

 

~

 

Troyard’s condition was improving. According to the doctors, most of the trauma-induced swelling had receded. Unfortunately, the lack of functional recovery meant that Troyard’s paralysis was likely to remain unchanged.

 

Troyard’s psychological state was more difficult to judge. He seemed energetic in conversation. Yet, according to the nurses, he did not attempt to interact at any other time. More time was needed for a good assessment.

 

Perhaps Troyard also needed time to become used to his situation. There was no way to tell, as of the moment. This current exchange elucidated nothing. Inaho was not attempting to convince Troyard of anything, but Troyard argued back regardless. Was it so difficult for the man to believe that Inaho did not consider a life saved a wasted effort?

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Troyard’s voice.

“I know it sounds fairly hypocritical, but”– Troyard paused, sighed– “I’m glad you made it out of that hell more or less unscathed.”

 

Inaho could not prevent his body from stiffening slightly in his chair, but managed to restrain the hand that automatically rose to touch his eyepatch. What did Troyard mean? What definition of “unscathed” would fit his current state–

 

_Ah_.

 

Troyard didn’t know. He _couldn’t_ know. He had never seen Inaho without the eye, had no way of knowing what would be easily apparent to anyone with functional vision. Had been insensate in the ICU when the removal surgery was being performed.

 

More than likely, he didn’t even realize how much the device had been harming Inaho. In battle, Inaho had been too focused to show much, and Troyard had been unconscious and injured after the crash…

 

_The collision with Earth had been harsh, but Inaho had been ready. Even so, the impact that tore his kataphract away from the Tharsis also slammed his body across the cockpit as he bounced and rolled to a stop._

_By the time the motion ceased, there was a dull, burning ache on his forehead, and the all-too-familiar sensation of blood running down his face._

_Those were dwarfed by the violent pain clawing at his left eye. Even shut, taking in no new data, it still hurt worse than it ever had._

_It throbbed distractingly, robbing him of his focus as he slid out through the damaged hatch so that he hit the sand in an awkward tumble instead of landing on his feet._

_He forced himself back upright. The Tharsis– where had the Tharsis landed._

_There, in the water. Scattered fragments, gleaming white like exposed bone in the darkness._

_Nothing. No sign of movement among the wreckage._

_Opening his eye made him want to curl up on the ground and scream, but there was no time– every second he delayed was another second Troyard spent under the surface. A swift thermal scan was sufficient to spot the human-shaped blotch of heat. Not too deep._

_Inaho did not like to rely on luck, but here he could not help being thankful for it anyway._

_It took a bare ten seconds to reach the water’s edge, but that was enough to ensure that his suit had taken no damage in the crash. He plunged in, pushing himself through the dark murk with aching limbs. Without the eye’s infrared camera, he would have been completely blind._

_The Tharsis’ cockpit gaped open. Debris battered against his body as he swam inside– again, the eye the only guide he had beyond arm’s reach._

_A scan registered Troyard’s condition: poor. Multiple severe injuries, including spine and cranial trauma. Chance of death if moved: 67%. Chance of worsened injuries if moved: 84%. But if Troyard stayed here, underwater, he would be dead in minutes. Inaho had no other choice._

_Troyard’s body was limp and unresponsive, a dead weight of soaked brocade and lifeless limbs. Inaho was sharply aware of every slow, irregular beat of Troyard’s heart, tracked by the analytical engine as he swam for the surface._

_His legs kicked desperately until his muscles ached, and he tried to claw himself upward with one arm, the other hooked around Troyard’s chest. Swimming was already a challenge in the shattered crash site– the extra weight slowed him, made exhaustion weigh heavy on his limbs and pain knife through his head. The analytical engine marked each horribly slow beat of Troyard’s heart, slowing ever further every second he was submerged. The surface seemed farther away than the depths of space, and that much more impossible to reach._

_Inaho bared his teeth in a snarl. He would not fail Seylum, not this time. Save Slaine Troyard- her last request. The last thing he would ever do for her. She had trusted him with this task. He would not let her down._

_He surged for the surface, putting every ounce of strength he had into pushing upward, ever upward._

_He broke through in a spray of water. Nothing marked the horizon, no landmarks nor aircraft nor signs of humanity. Just the scattered wreckage._

_He grimly braced Troyard’s head above the water and made for the shore._

_When he reached the sand, he he wanted nothing more than to collapse. But he couldn’t._

_Water drained from Troyard’s nose and mouth. Blood oozed lazily from the cuts on his skin. But he didn’t breathe._

_Inaho pressed his fingers against Troyard’s pulse, counting the beats of his slowing heart._

_Troyard still was not breathing._

_Inaho closed his open eye. There were no other measures to take. He knelt in the damp sand next to Slaine’s body and tilted his head back, pinching his nose and carefully opening his mouth with a firm hand on his jaw._

_Troyard still offered no resistance, or even reaction._

_Inaho fit his lips over Troyard’s and breathed, carefully tracking how far Troyard’s chest rose before he stopped the exhalation. He counted, and then blew again. Wait. Again. And so on, cycle after cycle of breathing into Troyard’s still body._

_The UFE would be tracking their location, he knew. The distance to the nearest base was unknown. ETA could not be estimated. There was no way to determine how long he would have to do this. Or even if it would work. There was a low chance of Slaine surviving the next twenty minutes._

_Inaho knew these things._

_But he did not stop._

_When Troyard’s body convulsed, Inaho turned him on his side and waited as a murky mix of foamy water and stomach acid spilled from his mouth, then rolled him onto his back once more and continued the rhythm of breath, pause, breath again._

_Troyard’s heart kept on through it all, uneven and stuttering but beating all the same._

_Inaho had no way of measuring the passage of time– it became a blur of breathe, count, breathe, count, fingers pressed against Troyard’s flickering pulse. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours._

_He didn’t stop even as he heard the building rhythmic beat of helicopter blades cutting the night sky._

_He submitted himself willingly to the ministrations of the medics flocking around him, but his eye remained on Troyard as the gurney carrying his motionless body was hoisted into the helicopter._

 

That had been four weeks and five days ago. Inaho had felt no need before now to bring any of it up; he felt no different now. It was not relevant information for Troyard to have. Neither the eye nor the rescue.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I don’t want your thanks,” Troyard said, voice tired.

 

“Well-wishes are usually replied to with gratitude”–

 

“Don’t. You saved me. You did all she asked of you. As best as you could. Now, how about you, Kaizuka,” Troyard said, rolling to his side so he faced away, as he had earlier– but with a much greater sense of finality– “just not concern yourself with me at all?”

 

And the room was silent.

 

Perhaps, because there was nothing more to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, my commemorative fic for the anniversary of the airing of episode 24! Once more, don't believe the date stamp– it's 11:24 pm on the 28th here, smh AO3. 
> 
> This is actually the second AZ fic I ever started writing– I have been sitting on this idea for months, slowly adding to the doc even as I told myself "I'm never going to publish this." However, now the anniversary has rolled around, a post-canon (that everyone I've told about it has begged me to publish, orz) seems suitable as a way to commemorate. 
> 
> Note: this fic is unbeta'ed. Mostly because this is a self-indulgent fic for me (which says quite a lot about how much I love angst…), and so, it felt fitting to just let this all pour out in rough, raw form. I can't say anything about how often updates will happen– mostly just as the whim takes me, I think. But I do have quite a lot written already…
> 
> Last, please take care of yourselves. This fic will have depictions of ableism, abuse, neglect, physical and emotional trauma… a lot of nasty, nasty angst. This is not light reading. There will be a happy-ish end, but it will be a long time coming. So, if you like angst, buckle up I guess!


	2. • things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear •

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is one of the most difficult chapters I have ever written. Why? See the content warning:
> 
> Content Warning– Heavily/directly implied abuse and sexual assault/rape. Use of ableist and abusive language. Proceed with caution.  
> (I have no personal experience with sexual assault or spinal cord injury, so there may be problems with my attempts to portray both. Feedback/critique about these subjects is much appreciated.)
> 
> Less likely to trigger anyone, but still worth mentioning: this fic will contain lots of graphic depictions of what living with paraplegia+blindness is like. I am putting as much effort into not romanticizing these conditions as I can. The results will sometimes make for an unpleasant read.

Inaho disliked melodramatic language. Attempts to embroider the construction of a sentence conveyed no less or more information than a plain sentence would have.

 

Yet…

 

“Ghostly” was the only word he could think of to describe Troyard’s appearance. Pale, hollowed cheeks and deep shadows carving the angles of his face, sightless eyes strangely intense.

 

“You have lost 2.5 kilos since your arrival here. Why are you refusing food?”

 

“Well,” Slaine rasped, “it’s not as if I’m going to fuel myself up to run laps around the compound every day. And haven’t you heard of muscle atrophy?”

 

“The rate of loss is greater than atrophy”–

 

“Guess I atrophy pretty fast then, don’t I?”

 

“This is a serious health concern”–

 

“Well, it’s _my_ health, and _I’m_ not concerned about it. “ Slaine’s head lolled sideways on his neck, listlessly.

 

“Surely you understand the futility of this.”

 

“I apologize,” Slaine drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm, “that I gave you the impression I cared.”

 

Other words were said, after, but none of them mattered. Nothing changed.

 

 

~

 

 

Slaine lay on his back, staring into the nothingness.

 

_“Why are you refusing food?”_

 

Kaizuka knew nothing. Understood nothing.

 

The mattress underneath him was hard and unforgiving: then again, that was no surprise. A genocidal war criminal’s sleep should never be easy.

 

He couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten, or what it had been. He didn’t care.

 

Kaizuka had been picking away at his supposed weight loss. As though he hadn’t long ago waived his rights to health and happiness. Slaine couldn’t muster a single fuck to give about what Kaizuka thought.

 

Slaine wondered, idly, what Kaizuka wore during his visits. Was there appropriate attire to wear in front of someone who would never see it? Not that it mattered, in the end. What was done here, to him or for him, in this cage– his only option was to surrender and accept that this was his lot. Blind, ruined, helpless. Resistance– to Kaizuka, to the guards, to the staff here– would be more than futile. He deserved nothing more.

 

He was foul, decayed, and corrupted. And Kaizuka should be content to leave him to rot here.

 

Guards’ boots echoed in the hall approaching the cell, and instantly, silently, Slaine turned his back to the door, stomach knotting.

 

_I deserve nothing less._

 

 

~

 

 

Troyard’s eyes were half-open, unfocussed, dull. He had lost weight. Again. His hair hung listlessly to his shoulders and over his face, and he made no effort to brush it away.

 

“Troyard.”

 

The sound of his name made the man lift his head ever so slightly, but otherwise he remained motionless.

 

Inaho’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You continue to refuse most of the food given to you. If this conduct continues, you may be forced to accept a feeding tube.”

 

Troyard blinked, slowly.

 

“Complying willingly would be better for you than being forced.”

 

Troyard’s sightless eyes remained staring blankly into nothingness, off to Inaho’s right.

 

Inaho swallowed his frustration.

 

(Or at least, it was easier to pretend it was frustration. Worry was far more difficult to deal with. And Inaho wanted things kept simple.)

 

 

~

 

 

A feeding tube?

 

Slaine felt nothing about the prospect.

 

_That was a lie._

 

Hard-edged plastic forced down his throat, deep inside him, so they could control even how much and when he ate. Frost filled him slowly as the idea flowed through his body. Starting at the heart, spreading outward until even his fingers were icy-cold.

 

He was careful to not let it show.

 

_“Complying willingly would be better for you than being forced.”_

 

Slaine didn’t need Kaizuka to tell him that.

 

They could do anything to him. He could only accept.

 

Kaizuka’s voice was battering at him again. He closed his ears to it. It didn’t matter; Kaizuka would give up and leave, eventually.

 

It was only a matter of time.

 

 

~

 

 

Slaine lay on the bathroom’s cold tile floor, icy water dripping off his bare skin. His muscles twitched and spasmed out of his control, too weak to even pull himself out of the puddle on the ground.

 

He gasped a short, strangled breath, hand reaching out along the floor for a crack, a bump, any kind of hold to pull himself away with. The empty air, the clinging water, the hard ground, they all leeched warmth from his body and left it heavy and frostbite-cold. He might have already been dead. That was what it felt like– that he was a bloodless corpse, laid out on the ground. His legs were dead already. It wouldn’t take much for the rest of him to follow.

 

As his foolish heart pumped warmth through his flesh again, he was reminded that he was still, inconveniently, alive. He managed to struggle his arms under himself and push forward. His chair, his clothes, they had to be somewhere–

 

His arms gave out and his shoulder collided painfully with the tile. He bit back a cry of pain. Slowly, he righted himself once more. Another arm’s reach onward. Another blind grasping in the dark as shivers worked their way from his neck down his spine and to his hands, leaving him trembling so severely that moving was a monumental effort.

 

Soaked hair clung to his face and neck, sticking and itching and icy against his skin. Water droplets seeped down from his scalp, tracing chilly trails on his flesh. One caught on his open, gasping mouth and slid inside– a shock of cold. A reminder. He dry-heaved feebly.

 

His fingers brushed something that wasn’t tile or concrete– softer, the rough-woven texture of prison scrubs. His body sagged with relief. For a moment, he simply slumped listlessly down to the floor, tiles pressing frigid and hard against his temple.

 

Then, he pulled himself off the ground once more, and kept going.

 

 

~

 

 

“So… Slaine is not doing poorly, but neither is he doing well…” Asseylum sighed. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Inaho, even as unpleasant as it is. I… I do not have any more time today. I am sorry.”

 

Inaho nodded, and watched as the screen went blank. He took no pleasure from burdening her further than she already was, shepherding the fragile peace. But nothing would be gained by concealing Slaine’s declining condition from her.

 

The decline was not dramatic. Slaine looked much the same as he had when he had entered the prison. Perhaps his cheekbones looked sharper, his sightless eyes more sunken… but those were subjective observations.

 

The deterioration was notable in other things; things like physiological regulation and weight. Slaine’s appetite continued to be poor. Muscle atrophy accounted for some of it, as his legs lost tone and body, but the draining of vitality from him was much faster than could be explained by that alone. Equally concerning, Slaine’s blood pressure and body temperature were irregular between readings. The paralysis came with risk of many secondary complications. Blood pressure dysregulation was both a cause and symptom of many.

 

Something was causing Slaine’s lack of appetite, and the dangerous fluctuations. Likely the same mysterious factor.

 

If Inaho did not discover what, it was increasingly likely that Slaine would die.

 

 

~

 

 

Slaine lay there, listlessly, on the bed. The aches of fear and tension lingered in his body, fading echoes. His heart beat strangely– too fast, too slow, somehow never enough to properly pump warmth into his cold carcass.

 

It was an odd sensation, to be half dead. Waist up: breathing, warm muscle and flesh. Waist down: living corpse, still and nerveless and cold, hard bones and papery skin and sinew.

 

So there he was, suspended halfway between life and death. Fitting. No rest, no quiet nights, for one such as him. The peace of final sleep was as unreachable as heaven, as undeserved as happiness. This was his purgation. A hazy tartarus of pain and fear and humiliation. To live, and suffer; that was his punishment for the lives he took, the good and gentle things he tore asunder and drenched in blood.

 

No matter how many months, how many years, this went on, the weight of his crimes would never be absolved.

 

Even so, it was a fitting price.

 

His fingers wrapped instinctively around the disk of his pendant. The scrap of body heat it held made him tighten his grip more, until the edges dug painfully into his palm and he could feel the engravings pressing into his skin.

 

 

~

 

 

Inaho frowned at the readout on the screen in front of him.

 

He was not, technically, supposed to be viewing this “confidential” information. However, he had determined that these were extenuating circumstances, and acted accordingly.

 

What showed was grim. Troyard’s condition was poor, and had been for the past ten months. Constantly low body weight; unstable body temperature; wildly varied blood pressure. Too-frequent infections and illnesses. Two medium-progression bedsores in the past three months alone.

 

The worst temperature and blood pressure vacillations seemed to correlate with bowel evacuation and showers. For greatest efficiency, both were performed in the same room in the same timeslot. Inaho scanned back through months of records, tracing the trend back to near the start of Troyard’s imprisonment. His eye narrowed. It was possible that the changes were merely a coincidence.

 

However.

 

It was suspicious. The only room in the prison without cameras was the washroom. Obviously, this was a privacy measure. Yet that also meant there was no way to tell what might go on there, when Troyard entered with his escorts.

 

Dips in body temperature, spikes in blood pressure… something was happening in there, out of sight. No reports from any of the staff of anything out of order. But that may merely mean that they were keeping silent about it, for some reason.

 

Inaho leaned back in his chair, looking down at the screen. So, to determine if anything was occurring in that room, he would need a way to monitor it– preferably, one with no video involved.

 

Yet even so… evidence of wrongdoing– torment, abuse, or other harm to the prisoner– would not be a quick and easy path to removal of those causing the problem. If there currently was a conspiracy of silence, then it would be his evidence against potentially a dozen or more witnesses.

 

A vast array of violence and abuse could be occurring there, without many knowing of it. Perhaps whatever was going on in that room contributed to Troyard’s refusal to eat?

 

Inaho had no way of knowing for sure. Yet, one thing remained certain: this could not continue. That was why direct action was needed here.

 

Then–

 

“Nao, I’m going to bed.”

 

He glanced up to see Yuki, leaning in the doorway. “Sleep well, Yuki.”

 

She smiled, but it wasn’t as perky as she usually tried to be. “You should get some sleep yourself. Don’t forget, okay?”

 

He nodded. “Yes, Yuki. I know.”

 

Now, her smile was tired. “Thank you. Night.”

 

 

~

 

 

The wind howled, whipping the snow into a hail of icy pinpoints. They scraped across Slaine’s skin like needles as he struggled to escape from the snowdrift surrounding his body.

 

A figure stood before him, but as he fought it turned away.

 

A familiar figure.

 

“Father!” he cried. “Help me! Dad!” He thrashed, but only sunk deeper into the snow. The storm became heavier, the edges of his father’s outline blurring out into greyness, fading away as more and more flakes gradually whited out the world.

 

Snow battered his eyes, filled his nose and mouth with particles of ice, slowly erased even the traces of footprints on the ground. Until everything drowned in white and cold. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. It had buried him under.

 

Distantly, his ears caught the sound of howling wind.

 

And he jolted awake, blackness what welcomed him but still cold as the grave. He blinked, breath dragging wild and panicked through his throat, hand clutching at his chest.

 

Slaine buried his face in the ratty, flat pillow, frantically trying to muffle the sounds of his tears. As much as the guards may savor seeing him cry during the daylight hours, it would be much the worse for him if they caught him “making a fuss” at night.

 

Strange, after so many years of crying one would have thought he’d have cried himself dry by now. It seemed not.

 

 

~

 

 

It was dark. So Inaho sat there. There was nothing menacing in the darkness. Just emptiness. He did not fear it. He had seen nothingness before. It had no power over him now.

 

He would merely remain. And remain. Still and silent. For a minute. For an hour. For an eternity.

 

Either way, it didn’t matter to him.

 

His family was safe.

 

His friends were safe.

 

His world was safe.

 

He could stay here, alone. It would be fine. He wasn’t needed anymore.

 

Then–

 

A disruption in the blackness. A warp of _something_ in nothing. Barely detectable, but…

 

Getting stronger.

 

Slowly

 

Slowly

 

Slowly it revealed itself. Resolving into a half-seen, half-imagined glimmer of light. So faint, so distant, it might not have been there at all.

 

But it was not nothing.

 

Inaho stood, turned towards the glow.

 

It flickered.

 

He stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, slow but growing faster and faster until he was almost running–

 

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

 

Inaho flinched awake, truncated urgency and aborted, fading sense of purpose thrumming residually through his sinews.

 

The alarm screeched incessantly in the background. Inaho ignored it, and stared blearily up at the blank ceiling.

 

A plain breakfast– omelet, coffee– awaited. His uniform, neatly hung up last night, ready for wearing. His desk, at the UFE office, ready for him to review paperwork. Never-ending, eternal, mind-numbing paperwork.

 

Well. It was a life. He required nothing more.

 

 

~

 

 

The humiliation of it all had dulled, after so long. Slaine could remember the weedy voice of some unknown doctor; “Absolutely no bowel control. You will need to do a bowel program once a day. First”– the voice had drawled on, but Slaine had ignored most of it. He understood what he needed to. His body was useless now.

 

Wasn’t it the perfect picture of irony: the man who had striven to rule two planets, unable to even shit on his own. Forced to poke and prod and lubricate until his muscles finally did what they would do without trouble in whole, normal people.

 

But the waiting was worse.

 

Slaine could not feel the slick slide of his fingers inside his own fucking body. He was numb, deadened to it. The motions were familiar and mechanical, by now.

 

Even so. It was only preparation.

 

“Aren’t you done yet, filth?” A guard’s voice snapped through his thoughts.

 

Slaine very carefully did not flinch– a dog did not flinch at his master’s orders. “No, sir.” The demonstration of respect and submission may earn him an easier time later.

 

When the whim took them, they could make him hurt. That he felt nothing from the waist down meant little. There were far many more ways of inflicting pain than merely the most violating.

 

He had received and caused enough pain in his lifetime to know that, intimately.

 

He deserved this, everything they did to him. He _was_ filthy, despicable, something less than properly human.

 

The powerful could do whatever they pleased to the powerless. He knew that. He knew his own powerlessness. He knew that subjugation and dehumanization were his lot.

 

More than that– his just punishment. He had always deserved this, even back then under Cruhteo. Hadn’t what he had become, what he had done to those who wasted their energy caring for him, shown how corrupt he was? Even when young he had been tainted, wrong. He was a dull broken thing, fading out slowly. Alone, alone, alone.

 

As it should be.

 

 

~

 

 

Planting the audio bugs had been easier than Inaho had expected; a simple request for a tour of the facility’s amenities had been sufficient.

 

The choice of audio over video had been a considered one. Audio provided sufficient evidence of wrongdoing without severe invasion of privacy.

 

The device could catch anything within a five-meter radius. All Inaho had to do was wait, and it collected the evidence he needed to determine what must be done. Luckily, leaving the recorder running for days hadn’t been necessary. Inaho glanced down at the neat schedule he had copied over, complete with times and days of the week– showers, and bladder and bowel maintenance, highlighted. Those dates and times were the only ones that mattered, here.

 

He had recorded three; that should be more than enough to detect anything untoward.

 

Headset settled firmly over his ears, he began the playback.

 

_“– Get in there!” accompanied by a dull rattle._

 

Inaho’s eyebrows drew together.

 

That was followed by many minutes of mostly-silence. Some sounds of movement; the occasional small noise from the person who could only be Slaine. Running water. Little else punctuated it. Inaho listened patiently. Missing something small but important would make this whole endeavor a waste of time.

 

Then, the sounds changed. _Footsteps. A jumble of low voices._

 

_“Finished pretty quick today, didn’t you? Don’t think it will make this easier for you.”_

 

What?

 

_“Bend him over this, it worked good last time.” The sounds of a body being dragged, flesh slapping down against a hard surface._

_“Feels great to be a Count, doesn’t it, murderer?” There was the impact of a hand against skin. A half-muffled cry of pain– unmistakably Slaine’s._

_“Watch the face.” The voice was offhanded, casual in tone. “Don’t want Kaizuka sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”_

_“I didn’t hit him hard!”_

_“Whatever, just watch it.”_

 

Inaho gripped the edge of his desk, white-knuckled.

 

_“Spread his legs already.” Another voice cut in. “Lubed and primed, what more do you need?”_

_“Well, slut? What do you need? What did you use while sleeping your way up through the ranks on Mars?”_

_Silence._

_“How bad to you want this to hurt?”_

_For the first time, Slaine’s voice. Dry, weak, quiet. “No… lubrica–“_

_“Shut it. You’re ours now.”_

_Another cry of pain. Bodies moving, more footsteps._

_“Not so high and mighty now, eh? You always take it like a good whore_.”

 

No. No no no–

 

_A heavy, satisfied groan._

_Deep grunting, the obscene slapping of skin against skin, slow at first but gaining speed and rhythm–_

 

Somehow, Inaho’s blank, trance-like horror broke just long enough for him to stop the playback.

 

His body felt unbearably overheated, as though he had fallen into a furnace– but yet ice crawled down his spine, and prickled his skin with terrible chill. His heart beat wildly in his throat, as if it were trying to choke him.

 

He stared at the wall, eye wide, nails digging into the desk’s finish.

 

Something _was_ happening to Slaine in that room: violation of the most fundamental kind, brutal and vicious and… if the implications were to be believed, frequent.

 

More than any other sound, Slaine’s voice– the complete, utter defeat in his tone– echoed over and over again in Inaho’s mind. The spark of defiance that Inaho had seen when he visited Slaine in the hospital was long extinguished.

 

Abruptly, sickeningly, the creeping dull lifelessness that had overtaken Slaine in the year since his incarceration made perfect sense.

 

If, in that moment, someone asked Inaho to stand, he would not have been able to.

 

Emotions churned inside him, but they were in such a chaotic whirl that listing just one was impossible.

 

Yet, one was slowly emerging from the tumult, gaining form, and definition. and–

 

Ah yes. That was what it was. Fury. Cold and contained and mercilessly sharp.

 

This was going to end. It was going to end soon. Even if Inaho had to move into the prison and spend every moment guarding Troyard. Such cruelty, such inhumanity, such violence– even more so, perpetrated against someone who was unable to fight back– should not and _could_ not be simply turned a blind eye to.

 

He did not care what it took. He needed to do this; not for the Empress, but for Slaine’s rights as a human being.

 

This. Would. _End_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to leave you all on such a terrible cliffhanger! I promise, the next chapter is already half written, and I'm making posting it a priority.
> 
> I said I'd update in May and here I am, at 11:32 pm on May 31st. AO3 will claim this was posted on june 1st. They lie.
> 
> Aside: "I'm sorry Slaine" has been my motto for writing this fic. orz


	3. • things you said that made me feel like shit•

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had long ago learned to value the little moments of happiness granted to him in his life. It had been long since the last one. There was no way of knowing when the next would come. Until then, he would take what he was given.

Inaho chewed absently on his lip. The audio recordings may not give faces, but they allowed him to correlate the time of each one with the guards on the security camera manhandling Slaine to the washroom.

 

There was also the falsification of medical records. Not a single one reported signs of assault during the week of recording. If the medical staff was not directly colluding with the guards, they were at least turning a blind eye.

 

He had presented the information, as clearly and with as much preservation of Slaine’s privacy as he could, to the prison Oversight Board. They had dismissed the current guards almost immediately. But yet…

 

It was not a solution. New staff were to be brought in to re-staff the now severely shorthanded prison– but what would prevent the same situation from developing again?

 

It was a simple, inexorable perfect storm. Slaine was despised. Hated. Slaine was in a position without power. Weak. Unable to defend himself. Anyone who wished to demonstrate the power they held over him may resort to… the same violations as before, to humiliate and brutalize Slaine.

 

The only way to prevent it was to not have him be in that situation to begin with. Yet, as long as he remained in prison, that was impossible…

 

_Wait_. Inaho’s eye flew open.

 

Petition for house arrest. That was what he had to do. He could take Slaine in, prevent this from ever happening again.

 

Yuki wouldn’t like it, he knew. Him moving away without explanation, and her not being able to visit. But, he thought as he scanned through page after page of UFE regulations for the proper clauses, she would simply have to accept it.

 

It was drastic. Risky. Strange, even. However, anything was a better alternative than the violation and abuse being visited on Slaine. Past crimes, former enmity, and current antipathy– none of it justified leaving Slaine to suffer.

 

 

~

 

 

“I propose that instead of wasting the resources required to locate, hire, train, and employ a new set of guards, Slaine Troyard be placed in my custody.”

 

The president of the oversight board leaned forward, adjusting her glasses. “Your custody?”

 

“Yes. Troyard does not need a large staff, or even a secure facility. He is incapable of moving long distances without help. He also requires assistance to perform basic health and hygiene activities. This renders him unable to survive on his own, even if he were to escape. However, these issues can be dealt with by a relatively small number of people. Or, as I argue, just one.”

 

She looked down her nose at him. “You?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So you believe you are qualified to take care of whatever health requirements he may have?”

 

Inaho looked her steadily in the eye. “At least as qualified as his previous guards, yes.”

 

Their gazes held for a long moment. Then, she cleared her throat and looked away. “Alright. I shall take your word for it.”

 

“Are there any other concerns?”

 

“Well,” she sniffed, “there is the comparative _leniency_ of house arrest as opposed to a life sentence in prison. The members of the Board expressed concern that a lightened sentence shows insufficient severity.”

 

“To the public, Troyard is dead. It is pointless to match what the public thinks he deserves when it does not matter. However, if the board is uneasy, perhaps the circumstances should be examined by Empress Asseylum, to determine their compatibility with her wishes”–

 

“No investigation is necessary,” the president said loudly. She dragged the paperwork down her desk and slammed a rubber stamp on it. “There. Your proposal is approved, and the Oversight Board will begin making the transfer arrangements.”

 

As he tucked the paperwork safely into a folder, Inaho allowed himself a small, relieved sigh. There had been a chance that the UFE would remain stubborn, forbid house arrest, force Inaho to bring the evidence of Slaine’s mistreatment before Seylum. It would have hurt her, deeply, in a way he wished on no one. It had been a gamble that the UFE had more fear of its ugly, vindictive secrets being exposed than it had hatred for Slaine. And it had worked.

 

In what could be less than a week, Slaine would be secure.

 

 

~

 

 

“Get up.”

 

The order came suddenly, without warning. From an unfamiliar voice– one of the new people who had simply appeared one day as the previous staff vanished. Slaine complied without hesitation– he didn’t know what they wanted, what they were going to do to him, but he wasn’t eager to earn a beating.

 

They took him down the hall to the medical room. There, the doctors (he hoped it was the doctors) began to do… something. Down where he couldn’t feel it. He closed his sightless eyes and swallowed thickly.

 

Whatever it was, it ended quickly. “Empty the bag every four hours,” he heard a dispassionate voice say, somewhere off to the left. Bag? So, it had been… a catheter? Why now?

 

Then, his chair was being pushed… somewhere? _Where are they taking me? What’s happening?_ He knew, roughly, the layout of the prison. But this direction was unknown to him.

 

The movement stopped, abruptly. His heart beat against the bars of his ribcage, like the flutter of frantic bird wings. Arms wrapped around him. Stiff, ungentle, impersonal. Lifted him up. He stayed obediently limp as he was manhandled into– another chair?

 

Straps began tightening none-too-gently around his arms, his chest, his wrists–

 

_Breathe. Breathe. In… out. Don’t panic. Just let them do whatever they want. “Complying willingly would be better for you than being forced” indeed._

 

Something came down, closing over his face and head and neck. It was rough where it pressed against his skin.

 

A bag? They had put a bag over his head. Like a man to be dragged before the firing squad.

 

He stopped breathing.

 

_I’m going to die_ , he thought with perfect clarity. _They are going to kill me. That’s what this is for._

 

His heartbeat sped up wildly, as though it were somehow trying to make up a lifetime’s worth of beats in however few minutes it had left. Strange, mere moments ago he would have said death was a mercy. Yet, now that it was real, immediate, approaching–

 

He jerked against the straps, starting to struggle at last, even though his weak, useless body made the futility painfully obvious, as the restraint chair began moving again. His arms strained, fists clenching and unclenching, fingers clawing for purchase on the armrests he was strapped to.

 

“No!” he screamed, breath hot and damp against the material covering his mouth, “you can’t kill me, the Empress”–

 

“Quiet.” A hand cuffed the side of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

 

He yanked weakly against the straps, skin burning where the rough material was rubbing it raw. _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die._ Tears welled in his eyes. _I don’t care if I deserve it, if I should be dead, I’m a disgusting selfish coward for it but I don’t want to die!_

 

Slaine couldn’t hold back the tears, but he could keep them silent. So he cried, shoulders shaking and hot, wet drops quietly running down over his cheeks, as his chair was rolled forward. Then, stopped for a moment– was that a door opening?– then the movement continued and suddenly–

 

There was a breeze ghosting over his bare arms. And warmth, laid over his skin like a blanket. Could it be– sunlight? Was he _outside_?

 

The shock was enough to stop his tears in his chest. He would have turned his face in search of the warmth, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t move, couldn’t stop to savor this, as already his weight shifted as the chair was pushed up an incline.

 

The warmth vanished.

 

There was shifting, clunking underneath him. A loud _thunk_ that shuddered through the frame of the chair. Then… footsteps receding? What?–

 

The roar and vibration of an engine answered his question before he could form it. He was in a vehicle.

 

_I’m being taken somewhere. For… execution? But if they already had a secure location to keep me in, why not kill me there?_ The side of his head throbbed where he had been hit. Every jolt of the road agitated the raw spots around the restraints, sending little burning jolts up his arms.

 

The bag over his face trapped his breath. He could still breathe, luckily, but the humid heat was oppressive. The fabric was rough, and prickled and itched his skin. Every second the desire to rip it off grew. But with his arms bound like this he was even more helpless than usual.

 

The ride was endless. He had no way of judging how far the van had gone, and how much longer it would continue– or what the eventual destination would be.

 

He only had one measurement of time. The leg bag. Every four hours, the doctor had said. So when the van stopped, and he heard someone fiddle with something in the area of his legs that sloshed, he knew: it had been four hours.

 

It was a kind of relief in itself, to be able to put a number on the amount of time he had been left to stew in continuous discomfort.

 

But then the ride resumed. And went on… and on…

 

At one point, Slaine began struggling against the restraints again, just for something to do to break the dark, damp, overheated monotony.

 

How remote even was wherever he was being taken? Why waste the time and effort of transporting him only to kill him?

 

Little jolts shook through him as the van hit uneven spots in the roads. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as a drop of sweat that he couldn’t move to wipe away slid down the back of his neck.

 

After a vague blurry expanse of time that Slaine was unable to grasp the edges of, the movement of the van shifted. He tensed warily. He had to brace himself as forces strained at his body– deceleration? The van was… stopping?

 

Fear rose over him like a wave again. This was it, the end of the line. If this was an execution, he had run out of time. His empty stomach twisted nauseously. Why, why, _why_ , when he had faced death, _wanted_ death, before, was he so afraid of it now? He should welcome it. An end to his pointless existence, a waste of air and space. But his fingers still trembled, nails digging into the chair, muscles tensing against the straps, breath coming in short gasps that left the inside of the bag hotter and damper than before.

 

_Why can’t I just accept fate?_ He thought desperately. _Why do I always keep fighting when I know it is hopeless?_

 

The door rattled open, and his heart skipped a beat. Two beats, maybe. He wasn’t counting, as steps clunked towards him.

 

This time, he couldn’t even muster the strength to plead. Fear choked him. Here he was, strapped down, masked, helpless and ready for slaughter.

 

He let out an unconscious whimper as the chair began to roll forward. Several jerking steps, and the path tilted downwards– the ramp, must be.

 

Slaine could not think. Could not breathe. Could not feel his heart beating in his chest. His whole body was frozen still.

 

The movement of the chair stopped. Steps approached, crunching on… was it gravel?

 

That gait was strangely familiar. Prison halls, hospital tiles, not _of_ those things but contained within them–

 

“Sir. Sign here to confirm the prisoner’s transfer.”

 

A moment of quiet scribbling. Then: “There.”

 

Slaine’s eyebrows shot up. That sliver of voice, that one word, was all he needed for the pieces to snap into place.

 

_Kaizuka_?

 

 

~

 

 

Inaho had not been able to persuade the board to transport Slaine in any other way. The only thing they would allow was that Inaho himself could bring Troyard inside, instead of an escort of armed guards.

 

He paced, back and forth on the front porch of the house. It was one of several around the world that the UFE had signed over to him and Yuki as part of their compensation for services rendered in the war. It fitted the needs of the situation well: a neat little one-story house, two bedrooms and one bath. Getting the front steps replaced with a ramp had been easy.

 

Knowing that Troyard would be strapped down in the back of an unmarked van for upwards of eight hours was less easy. Inaho knew that Troyard would not be told anything, and he himself had not been allowed to say anything of it during his last short, tense visit. The man would be confused, disoriented, and justifiably so.

 

Inaho reached the end of his path, turned on his heel, and retreaded his steps yet again.

 

Troyard was already in poor health– hopefully the stress of the transport would not harm him further. Being thrust into an unfamiliar environment immediately after would add additional stress. Inaho could only hope that Troyard would acclimate quickly.

 

There was no way of knowing for certain before it happened. Regardless, Troyard’s new situation would be much better than the one he had been in before. Inaho took several deep, steadying breaths. Being worked up about this would help no one.

 

He tracked the time as he waited, so he knew it had been eight hours and sixteen minutes since he had been notified Troyard was on his way that the truck rolled up the long, secluded drive.

 

Inaho’s hands tightened to fists when he caught sight of Slaine being rolled out of the back of the transport van. A hood over his head? He was _blind_. What point was there to it? And tied down hand and foot, the restraints stark against his pale, bony frame.

 

Cruel excessive force, all of it.

 

Inaho signed for the transfer as quickly as possible. With rapid steps, he went behind Troyard’s chair. He carefully maintained a steady pace as he pushed the ridiculous chair up the ramp and through the door.

 

The knot holding the hood on was luckily simple. No sooner was it undone than Inaho carefully pulled the offending item off of Slaine’s face.

 

The relieved slump of Slaine’s shoulders was so slight and swift that it might have just been Inaho’s imagination.

 

Swiftly, Inaho worked to undo the restraints. Reddened, indented marks of the straps’ weave stood out on Slaine’s body where they had bound him.

 

Inaho gritted his teeth and kept on.

 

Slaine’s skin was raw and irritated where the straps had been. Had he struggled? He could never have hoped to free himself– but Inaho was certain Slaine knew that already. He had fought back, even while knowing it was futile.

 

Inaho’s chest ached, just a little.

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

Slaine’s blind eyes flickered back and forth, as though he were instinctually trying to examine his surroundings. He was silent for slightly too long before speaking. “Yes.”

 

Inaho rolled his chair to the kitchen and positioned him at the table. Inaho had prepared a simple, light soup– nothing too heavy for Slaine, whose body would need time to adjust to the different diet. Or, really, any diet at all.

 

Slaine sat very still, slightly hunched. He made no motion towards the bowl set before him.

 

“I’ve already eaten, you don’t need to wait,” Inaho said, his voice sounding out of place in the silence.

 

Slaine started slightly. Then, with slow, measured movements, he picked up the spoon and began.

 

Inaho watched for a moment, then shook himself and turned away to keep his hands busy with kitchen tasks. Slaine ate very quietly, enough so that Inaho could not help glancing over at him from time to time.

 

A gap in the clouds opened, and evening sunlight flowed through the windows and spread over Slaine’s form. It highlighted the sharpness of the bones in his face, the hollowness of his cheeks, and carved deep shadows around his eyes.

 

Slaine’s hair did not shine. It only hung, lank and dull, down past his chin. When he hunched forward, it curtained around his face. It needed a good brushing, and a wash.

 

Actually, Slaine’s hair was the least among the immediate concerns. The damage from the straps would need salve. And… as much as Inaho may have wished to avoid such violations, every part of Slaine’s body had to be checked for pressure sores. Furthermore, the… internal damage would need treatment as well.

 

Inaho realized his jaw was clenched hard enough to make his teeth creak. He loosened it, folded the kitchen towel he held, and turned away from the counter.

 

Before everything else, Slaine would need to be washed. Infected sores could be dangerous. Deadly. And hot water had a calming effect that relaxed tense muscles– important for Slaine’s body to heal, and to relieve some of the tension that being moved here had certainly caused.

 

Inaho looked over to check on Slaine one last time as he left to draw the bath. Slaine ate steadily, still hunched over with his limp hair hiding his expression. His bony shoulders were tense. There was something birdlike about him, delicate, poised as though ready any second to spread wings and dart away.

 

Inaho blinked. That was an odd thought. Totally disconnected from reality. Why would he think something like that?

 

_Focus on the task at hand_ , he told himself, and went to draw the bath.

 

 

~

 

 

The second the rich, savory soup touched his tongue, Slaine had to use every scrap of restraint he possessed to keep from picking up the bowl and gulping it down before it could be taken away. He resorted to a slow, quiet pace instead. Perhaps if he didn’t make a sound, his new keeper– Kaizuka– would pay him no mind.

 

Off to his side there were sounds of clinking and running water. That was good, that meant Kaizuka was otherwise occupied.

 

When he heard footsteps, he froze again– but they moved past him and out into an unknown area of the building.

 

Slaine ate slightly faster.

 

Things were silent for several moments. Then–

 

Water. Splashing, running. Not near, but close enough, somewhere in the house. Slaine froze, terror gripping his every fragment of bone and sinew.

 

_Breathe. You don’t know that he’ll– put you under the water like– like they did– it’s, it’s probably nothing._

 

He forced himself to move again, keep spooning the soup into his mouth. It was difficult with how his hands shook. The spoon clipped the edge of the bowl, a harsh sound that made him jolt in his chair.

 

Swallowing became difficult with a throat choked with terror. He did anyway. Who knew when he’d next be given a meal like this? He couldn’t waste it.

 

Just in time, as the sound of footsteps treaded back towards him, the spoon clicked against the bottom of the empty bowl. Perhaps it was foolish, when he would more than likely be retching everything in his stomach back up in hours. He _knew_ it was foolish. But when he tasted that soup… that was the end of rationality. His body had screamed for nourishment that didn’t taste like grain meal or vitamin pills.

 

_Well, that’s over now_ , he thought as the steps halted behind him and hands took hold of his wheelchair.

 

“You’re done?”

 

Slaine’s grip on the armrests tightened. _Why is he asking when he can see the answer already? Is this some kind of trap?_ “Yes,” Slaine answered warily.

 

Without further preamble, the chair started to move. Slaine held as still as he could. The sound of the wheels against the floor changed, and then they drew to a stop. Slaine carefully tracked the small noises behind him. Waiting.

 

Kaizuka’s voice cracked the quiet. “If you don’t mind, you should… undress. I will leave.”

 

_Oh_ , Slaine thought dully as footsteps receded, a door clicked shut. _This_. With numb fingers he drew his shirt over his head. His mind was too empty to be thankful that his pants were ill fitting and loose enough to wriggle out of easily. He didn’t cry as he tugged the catheter out of his unfeeling flesh.

 

What would there be to cry about? He was well used to being a doll, thrown about at the whims of those who owned him. The pain of humiliation was old, familiar.

 

There was a peculiarly quiet knock on the door. “Are you done?”

 

“Yes.” He made sure that no emotion at all showed in his tone. His voice was as empty as his heart.

 

“Do you require assistance to move to the tub?”

 

What a strange question. Of fucking _course_ he did. But what was the correct answer? Saying yes would label him as burdensome. Saying no would be a blatant lie, and dangerous ingratitude in response to the implied offer of help. In the end, he settled on a simple “… yes.”

 

The door creaked open. There was a short, sharp inhale, and then a long moment of stillness. Slaine resisted the urge to curl in on himself. _If he wants to look at your body, don’t tempt a beating by hiding it_.

 

Kaizuka approached again, and Slaine breathed deep to quell his racing pulse. Close, Kaizuka was moving closer–

 

Hands touched his naked skin. Despite his efforts, every muscle in his body tensed horribly, bracing against whatever was to come. Kaizuka’s touch was uncomfortably hot, his skin against Slaine’s giving the touch a directness that was almost _intimate_. Slaine wanted more than anything to squirm away from the arm that wrapped under his shoulders.

 

But he didn’t. He held still, stiff and passive, as his weight shifted. Then, his body lifted out of the chair entirely, and Kaizuka let out a small grunt. He felt himself be carried several steps, and lowered–

 

Water lapped at his waist, and he jolted. He bit his lip painfully to keep down the pathetic pleading– _please no don’t put me in the water, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me there struggling to crawl away, cold and shaking and choking_ –

 

Relief hit him like a wall as the temperature registered– warm, verging on hot. And the lowering stopped with the water level well below his face. His body settled in, and the arms withdrew.

 

“Soap is on the small shelf, shampoo is on the rack above the faucet. I’ll… leave you to it,” Kaizuka said stiffly, and then the door clicked shut once more.

 

Oh… was he supposed to bathe himself? He supposed that did make sense… regardless of what Kaizuka wanted with him, he knew that touching his used, sullied, wasted body had to be repulsive, beneath someone with as much authority as Kaizuka. Cleaning himself up a bit may please the man.

 

Yet, fears and worries from the world outside this humid, warm space faded away as the heat seeped into Slaine’s bones. It had been so long– years, maybe– since he had had a real bath, something that wasn’t a rushed lukewarm wash with recycled water or a chilly shower slumped against cold tiles. He leaned back, letting the relaxation flow through his muscles and drain away the tension.

 

Body relaxed, breathing eased with the water-vapor-filled air, the heat soothing out aches he hadn’t known he had, resting against the edge of the tub and full of a comfortable sleepy warmth, Slaine decided that this was well worth anything that may come. He had long ago learned to value the little moments of happiness granted to him in his life. It had been long since the last one. There was no way of knowing when the next would come. Until then, he would take what he was given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well what can I say, I focussed entirely on this fic and still ended up taking a month to update. My apologies, readers! (I missed writing so bad leading up to and during con time tho, it's good to be back.)


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